


The King and the Lionheart

by Melicious_Intent



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Buddy comedy, Circle Tower, Gen, Light Angst, Self-Discovery, Templar Alistair, Templar Training, Work In Progress, character cameos, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 18:43:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8338600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melicious_Intent/pseuds/Melicious_Intent
Summary: Honour. Vigilance. Devotion. As a junior templar at Kinloch Hold, Cullen has served the Order well since he was just a boy of thirteen years. The night the Revered Mother unceremoniously dropped a young, mysterious Chantry Brother in Knight-Commander Greagoir's lap, however, his duties within the Tower took an odd turn. Now he is charged with moulding an unruly choirboy into a born soldier… and keeping the sorry bastard in line… Maker's Breath.(I feel the need to state that as this story has received little interest, I've suspended it in lieu of other projects. Should those projects come to a close and a demand arises, I may be swayed to continue.)





	1. Only the Best and Brightest

"Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him…"

If it weren't for the helmet he adorned, Cullen would have surely had his ears clapped for yawning during the evening recitation of the Chant of Light. After a long day of praying, standing around, guarding, praying, observing, trying to look intimidating to the mages, and oh yes of course, more praying, it was hardly unexpected that listening to the Chantry Sister would cause him to think of his bed.

Oh no, Maker, he hadn't meant it like that, and blushed furiously at the thought. It was only that the droning chant exhausted him to no end, and after years of study and training, he could practically quote it in his sleep – and quite often did, if his fellow brothers in the Templar Order were to be believed. Like true brothers, they often enjoyed playing the occasional prank or telling false stories just to liven things up in the dreary tower, so whether this was indeed true was an unknown.

Cullen grimaced at his own incessant disinterest, again silently grateful for the cover his full helmet provided. Narrowing his eyes and straining his ears, the young man forced himself to get through this properly. Andraste would not be pleased with him, were he to ignore his evening prayers in favour of idle thought...

"…shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones.  
They shall find no rest in this world  
Or beyond."

"So let it be," he chanted along with his many brothers from the back of the room. His superiors and the higher echelons of the Circle of Magi in Kinloch Hold were near the front, all of them on their knees before the woman, whose arms were raised as she blessed those in attendance.

"All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,  
From the lowest slaves  
To the highest kings.  
Those who bring harm  
Without provocation to the least of His children  
Are hated and accursed by the Maker."

Now came the verses to balance out the ones previous. Humbling himself, Cullen relaxed as he continued to kneel, hands resting one atop the other in reverence. Above all, it was imperative that he always remember never to harm a mage in his care without just cause. Be always watchful, be always wary, but be also gracious and merciful, as the Maker would.

Taking a deep breath, he looked up just as he was nudged by the man next to him, who had at some point during Cullen's musings removed his helmet. It had come time for their draught, a tranquil standing statuesque at the end of their row, his tray neatly arrayed with small doses of lyrium. One by one, the brothers passed them down the line until each Templar had in his hand the lifeblood of their Order, of what made them strong, steadfast, and true.

"All things in this world are finite.  
What one man gains, another has lost.  
Those who steal from their brothers and sisters  
Do harm to their livelihood and to their peace of mind.  
Our Maker sees this with a heavy heart."

"So let it be," they all mumbled in unison, heads bowed over their cups.

"Take heart, children of the Maker of all, and drink," the Sister permitted. As one, all templars present in the hall raised the lyrium to their lips and downed the glowing liquid like much-needed medicine. Though he had to admit it tasted awful, Cullen immediately felt a wave of calm wash over him. The lyrium's effects should have contributed to his exhaustion, but surprisingly, it usually accomplished the exact opposite. He felt rejuvenated, relieved, as if he'd felt the presence of angels beside him, giving him the strength and the submissiveness to do anything asked of him…

The Chant of Light was put to rest for the day. If the Sister recited every word of it, she would be up there for weeks without rest before finally finishing. Yet despite all that material to work with, somehow it always circled back to The Canticle of Transfigurations… _No pun intended_ , he thought dismissively as the Sister slowly walked the length of the aisle, gently swinging her brass incense burner to cleanse their souls before then allowing them to depart quietly.

Resting his helmet beneath an arm, he fell in beside his brothers, automatically rising to make for their quarters and catch a well-earned, good night's rest.

"A word, Knight Cullen," the Knight-Captain nodded, catching his lumbering attention. Wordlessly, he was led from the others to the corner of the cold stone chamber, his features blank and slightly glazed over as the senior officer pursed his lips, staring at him critically.

Had he been heard yawning, regardless of not being seen? Oh Maker's Breath, surely he hadn't been so careless! Although his mind raced with nervous thoughts flitting to and fro behind his eyes, Cullen remained alert and steady, suddenly remembering to salute through the lyrium haze.

Satisfied that he had been properly addressed, the Knight-Captain saluted in turn and relaxed, thereby allowing Cullen to also be at ease – at least outwardly.

"I have a sneaking suspicion it slipped your mind today, Knight, but I'm afraid I must remind you of your duties."

Had he possessed the ability to furrow a brow, Cullen surely would have done so. Instead he stared forward, trying his best to recall what he had apparently forgotten. "I have… guard duty at the Tower entrance," he slowly remembered through the fog clouding his mind. As the words left his lips, a part of him crumbled, yearning for nothing more after the monotony of his day than the dreamless slumber only lyrium could provide. Instead though, the draught had given him new life, and he took the news in stoic silence.

Having caught on, though, the man smirked and laid a hand on the junior templar's armoured shoulder. "Believe me," he sympathized, knowing that he could get away with such things while Cullen was somewhat incapacitated, "I know how you feel, my boy. There are far better places we'd rather be than staring at an unwavering door for four hours straight, but we all must sacrifice equally. It's your turn, Cullen. It won't be so bad, and time will pass quickly; you know that. Besides, it'll be an easy shift. Nothing interesting ever happens here," the Knight-Captain smiled, patting his pauldron before joining the others in their sleepy departure.

Moved to obedience, Cullen wordlessly complied, peering down at the helmet in his hands before placing it back over his head.

"Duty calls," a voice from behind him rumbled. Turning on his heel, he came face-to-face with his commanding officer, Knight-Commander Greagoir. After Cullen instinctively saluted, the Knight-Commander glibly returned the gesture, his helmet resting under his arm casually. "You're with me tonight, Cullen. I'll meet you there once I have a word with First Enchanter Irving about our agenda for tomorrow."

"Yes, ser. Thank you, ser," Cullen replied in a flat monotone. He noticed the irksome twitch on Greagoir's lip as he'd spoken the elderly mage's name, but knew better than to mention it, instead turning to make his way through the halls on his own.

The two men were not exactly tolerant of one another, though at times the respect they held for the other's position was apparent. Not today, however. They had suffered setbacks after an apprentice nearly burned down the library with a spell that went awry two days prior, and the clean-up was taking longer than anticipated. Irving was adamant that his pupils be allowed to study around the tranquil as they tidied, and Greagoir had argued that if it hadn't been for the unskilled pupils, this wouldn't be an issue in the first place. Both had concerns, but rarely if ever gave ground in a confrontation.

All these lifeless recollections ticked off in his mind like a metronome, his boot steps marking the time perfectly against the stone floor. Stone as far as the eye could see. Cold, ancient, protective walls… He was confident enough to call them home, now. Only three years had Cullen lived here, but they were years of discipline, diligence, and righteous determination. He would serve the Order in any capacity they deemed necessary. And tonight, he would serve as guard to the most protected door in all the Hold.

At least the Knight-Captain was right: nothing interesting ever happened here.

And he was at least satisfied with that knowledge.

O]=={XΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞ>

As luck would have it, he wasn't alone with the Knight-Commander, which was reassuringly fortuitous. Though he respected his superior, the man was downright intimidating to be near for any given period, and he feared the consequences of any mistakes made in his presence. Not that Cullen believed his training so minimal as to be riddled with errors, but at times his nerves got the better of him. Having others around both above and below his rank guaranteed that the focus wouldn't be solely on him, tonight.

 _Dear Maker, it's too quiet in the halls… Andraste's eyes, stay awake, Cullen. Don't slouch. Don't yawn. Distract yourself with your studies of the lesser-known verses. Yes, good thinking… me._ Frowning in consternation, he squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, eyes and ears trained on anything that dared to move in the middle of the night. _'The deep dark before dawn's first light seems eternal, but know that the sun always rises.' Not fast enough._ He failed to suppress a wry smile before remembering his face wasn't visible beneath the heavy steel helmet, anyhow.

 _Right, no more mucking about._ Cullen was disappointed at how easily distracted he had become by his own thoughts. Despite not having made a single betraying sound for hours, nor even a twitch in the wrong direction, it was disconcerting that he was behaving so boyishly. _Once more with reverence,_ he started again. _'A learned child is a blessing upon his parents and onto the Maker' –_

The large, looming doors cracked open, which was highly unusual, since they were more or less guarding against anyone getting _out_ , not in… Unless he'd imagined it? No, the unmistakable screech of damp wood grinding past stone reverberated through the whole lower level, and his fellow templars straightened slumping shoulders, raising their heads to better view the front. Maker, what time was it? This was far too ridiculous an hour, for those escorting new mages to the tower would never arrive so late when they could just as easily stay at the inn on the banks of Lake Calenhad until morning.

Losing patience with the unknown intruder's lack of appearance thus far, Greagoir sighed heavily and stormed over to the door, which had been left ajar as concerned mumbling could be heard outside.

As soon as he was less than five long strides from swinging it wide on its rusting hinges, Kester the ferryman stuck his grey hair inside, eyes widening when they immediately rested on the aggravated Knight-Commander. "Oh, Greagoir" he fumbled nervously, stepping inside before peering back out at whatever – or whomever – lay beyond the main door. "Mighty surprised to see yourself up and about!"

"Likewise, Kester, likewise," the elder templar nodded cautiously. "I trust you have sufficient cause to be disturbing the Circle so late at night?"

"Eh…" The ferryman seemed unsure of himself, though by the look on his careworn face, it was obviously pressing enough to warrant a visit. "I asked the men outside whether it was appropriate, and they seemed a bit worried they'd cause a kerfuffle, so I came to ask you – " Before he could prattle on further, the exasperated Knight-Commander shoved past him and had a look at the doorstep for himself.

"What the – " Greagoir cut his shout off and tactfully lowered his voice, though it was apparent a debate of some kind was raging outside. He was gesturing wildly, shaking his head in either confusion or refusal, and Cullen forced himself to remain at his post in spite of the urge to race forward and satisfy his curiosity. Horrocks, another templar near Cullen of similar ranking, took a careful step forward, his hand on the hilt of his longsword in anticipation of a fight.

The door burst open without warning, though, and all hands flew to their weapons defensively before immediately lowering, along with their jaws.

"Revered Mother," one of them gasped and, as if in a trance, they all bent a knee to her, shock rolling over them like a wave of confusion.

"Get up, fools," Greagoir grumbled impatiently, gauntlets crossed over his heavy steel chest plate.

"They still serve the _Chantry_ , don't they, Knight-Commander?" the Revered Mother bit curtly. She sounded as though she were at her wit's end. "They know their place is on their knees."

"Then why does the _Chantry_ come unannounced? This is the most unorthodox thing I've seen since you allowed the dwarven merchants to deliver our lyrium to us themselves!"

"They were not unprotected. Even without the cutthroat band of mercenaries accompanying them, they received the Maker's Blessing. He was watching over them, as He watches over us all."

Snorting derisively, their commanding officer was having none of this. "You didn't leave the quaint safety of Lothering to preach the Chant of Light to its most diligent observers, I presume."

Her robes swished as she turned and narrowed her eyes in his direction. "I would hardly come all this way just to relieve a Sister of her assigned position." At the clearing of her throat, four Brothers and Sisters whom had accompanied the Revered Mother on her journey stepped inside in single-file, one Brother lagging noticeably behind his contemporaries. "I've come to relieve myself of one of my charges."

"We don't require the services of another scribe," Greagoir argued heatedly, looking as though he wanted to shove them out the door this instant to be rid of them. Greagoir was often territorial of Kinloch Hold, and he wasn't about to give ground. "Many of our tranquil are perfectly suited to the task."

"This Brother was already receiving training as a templar by those stationed in my Chantry," she clarified loftily. "The boy has promise, but he lacks…" She searched her mind for an accurate description before snidely deciding on, " _respect_ for his superiors. I prayed for many weeks upon our dilemma, and have decided to leave him with you, Greagoir. Perhaps you can assess whether he's even suitable to the Order to begin with."

Cullen's mouth dropped open in astonishment. He'd never heard of such a thing in all his years of training. Judging by the vein protruding from the Knight-Commander's neck, he obviously felt similarly. "You think I oversee a boot camp instead of a Circle of Magi?! If your regiment saw fit to recruit him, then _they_ are responsible for training him, _not_ me!"

"They didn't recruit him. He was given into our care several years ago and I have done all in my power to see him properly humbled before the Maker. Alas, he is ill-suited for a life of piety, and Ser Bryant offered to see if he had any promise in the Brotherhood. Unfortunately, there was only so much our facilities could accommodate."

"Nevertheless, what is carried out within these walls does not include dealing with the village refuse! Do you have any idea the kind of danger an unready recruit poses to those under my command?!"

The Revered Mother turned her eyes back to Greagoir then, accusation dripping from her tone. "I've noticed that not once have you seen fit to refer to me with the respect you are bound to give without question. Shall I call upon the Divine to ask for a pronouncement of some sort? Would that quell your blasphemous refusal to do as you are told? I daresay your attitude is precisely the one I seek to eradicate from the boy."

The Knight-Commander was pinned by her ultimatum: either take the unwanted boy, or face a reprimand from the Clerics. Of course he did not want to have his name mentioned in Val Royeaux under such circumstances, but the Tower was not a place that could afford to take in templars who were untrained in dealing with the reality of what their duties demanded. Cullen thought that the best the Knight-Commander could hope to do in this situation was to confine the Brother to a room until another place more suited to deal with the problematic upstart could take charge of him.

Sparing a glance toward the Brothers, he tried to guess which of them was being so unceremoniously dumped into their laps. Doubtless it was the young man in his mid to late teens, scowling to himself quietly at the back of the odd procession. He didn't have the look of a Chantry Brother, nor did the unkempt, blond-haired youth seem hardened enough to even be considered a junior recruit yet. Perplexed, Cullen looked to Horrocks and shook his head, to which the templar simply shrugged in equal amounts of sheer bafflement.

Rubbing his nose between thumb and forefinger tiredly, Greagoir sighed out his frustrations, appearing calmer as he lowered his hands. "Very well, Your Holiness," he relented, much to his men's surprise, "I will see to it that he is properly dealt with. But when I deem him ready to return, you shall expect to see this man again in Lothering, under Ser Bryant's command."

Nodding in satisfaction, the Revered Mother raised her chin. "So long as he is befittingly disciplined for his position, I will accept your offer of aid to one of our Maker's beloved children." It wasn't an offer at all, but the way she had phrased it implied this would be her official record of how the matter was dealt with, should the right people come to inquire about the case. "Now, if your hospitality still extends to myself and my escorts, we require a room for the night before departing at daybreak."

Hearing that his services would no longer be necessary, Kester anxiously bowed and left the chamber, closing the noisy double doors in his wake as he gladly vacated the small island in the middle of Lake Calenhad.

"Of course, Mother," Greagoir submitted reluctantly. "I will see to it personally that you are given ample quarters." And with a slight bow not quite low enough to be deemed appropriate, the Knight-Commander escorted the silent procession to the doors leading to the hall, his men left to do nothing but resume their posts. It had all happened so fast that the templars were left thoroughly speechless, not knowing what to think of the unusual display that had played out.

The entryway again falling into overbearing silence around them, Cullen was left to wonder what in Andraste's name was so unseemly about the mysterious Chantry Brother that had forced even someone as genteel as the Revered Mother to abandon all hope and rid herself of his very presence in her Chantry. Well, whatever ill qualities he possessed, Cullen was sure they would all find out in very short order who this man was, and just what had spurred a woman of the cloth to act outside of normal parameters.

It seemed the Knight-Captain had been wrong after all... Something of interest was most assuredly on the horizon.


	2. Someone Else's Problem Now

He followed the Sisters indignantly down the halls, arched ceilings reaching high enough to allow for possibly two more floors above him. _Wasted_ _space_ , he shook his head, taking in his new, shudder-inducing surroundings.

The Revered Mother had lied through her teeth to the old templar man. Were servants of the Chantry allowed to lie the way she had? He hadn't been in Lothering for "years" before being led here like an untrained hound. He'd only been there for a month or so after serving as a Brother in the _Redcliffe_ Chantry without much complaint – that is, until Arlessa Isolde had heard he was freely moving about the town, where he might be seen, and in turn possibly recognised. He'd never even _spoken_ to Ser Bryant before, let alone undergone one-to-one training.

Which put the Brother in a very compromising position: He was about to be surrendered to a tower full of competent, soldierly veterans, and dangerous mages of various abilities and temperaments, without having received a single day of instruction whatsoever. About the only thing he'd be able to actually contribute toward his training was his knowledge of the Holy Chant. _Wait, do templars study the Holy Chant?_ See, this is exactly what he was talking about; he had next to no idea what it was templars did.

She would have needed to lie just to get him through the door, though. There was no way the military arm of the Chantry would have taken him in had the Revered Mother not falsely reassured them of his competence. _Great_. _She_ didn't care; she'd be gone before they could discover the truth, and he'd be stuck to suffer the likely humiliating consequences. _Maker, how am I going to fake my way through this?_

They'd ascended to the third floor – or was it the fourth? He hadn't been paying attention – before the Knight-Commander at the head of the group breathed a word. "These will be your quarters, your Eminence." Now the man was having her on, throwing grandiose titles in her face just to repay her for their unannounced intrusion.

The silence during the walk had done much to dissuade her attitude, however, and instead of barking some snide retort, she instead lowered her voice, her blue eyes slanted with concern. "Knight-Commander Greagoir, if I might have a word with you regarding the boy, I would most appreciate what time you could allow me to… explain."

His tired ears perked up at that. _Oh, she's not,_ he thought desperately, heart picking up speed beneath his red and yellow robes. _Tell me she's not._

"Is this urgent, Mother, or can it wait until morning?" His touchy demeanour relaxed slightly upon seeing the apprehension written over the lines of her face.

"I'm afraid it is of utmost importance, and cannot wait a moment longer. Please, come inside with us and find a chair. You will need a seat for this."

Panic overwhelmed him suddenly. "M-Mother," he blurted in shock beneath his draping hood, shaking his head insistently. They all turned to stare at him, waiting for him to say more despite their surprise that he'd dared to interrupt his superiors.

He couldn't get it out. He couldn't shut her up, no matter how he wanted to. His bloody voice had cracked, and his nerves choked off the words before they emerged from his throat. He had hoped, if anything, this would be a new start for him, somewhere he could leave the past and his origins behind. This was turning into a disaster before his eyes, and he knew that, even had he been able to plead for her silence, she would not have heeded him. Why would she? The Revered Mother did not answer to him.

"Calm yourself," she replied, clearly able to see him trembling with frustration. "This is for the best, Brother." Without another word, she nodded to the Knight-Commander, who stepped to the right and held open the door as they all entered. He didn't look up as he passed through, instead hunching in on himself in some semblance of keeping himself hidden, at least until the point of no return…

There was an unignorabe, distinct ringing in his ears as he stood apart from the five, seated far to his left as he tried his damnedest not to listen. He already knew what she was saying, so there was no real point in paying attention. This speech had been uttered more than a handful of times in his life, and he had memorised how it went by heart. _Not again,_ he despaired silently, wishing that he was anywhere else in Ferelden but here in these cold guest quarters, the truth of his lineage once again inescapable.

He hadn't been paying attention until he caught movement in his peripheral vision. To his dismay, his spirit sank as the hood was ripped from his head and thrown back with force, exposing him fully to the Knight-Commander. Turning his head in shame, he looked anywhere but at the templar's wide-eyed stare.

"Andraste's blood… He's the spit of King Maric." Grabbing the young man's chin forcefully, he moved his head toward him for further inspection. "…He has the name of Theirin stamped over every inch of his bloody face!"

It was undeniable. Long blond locks of hair, tied back at the base of his skull for travel, but when loosened framed his face just the same way. High blue eyes set above strong cheekbones, growing more masculine by the month as he blossomed into manhood. A jawline that not only echoed his father's, but practically paid homage to it. The very mirror of lips that had commanded armies and driven out the Orlesians during the Occupation. His parentage was as plain as the nose on his face, which incidentally was also a perfect copy of the original. He wasn't as strong yet, but his widening shoulders held promise for muscle that would fill him out and make the resemblance uncanny… and uncomfortable, especially outside high walls, where nobles and peasants alike had started commenting upon it, turning his very existence into something to be swept under the proverbial rug.

"A bastard only," the Revered Mother reminded him from her chair. _Bastard,_ he thought, barely able to contain his fury at the word. _Don't mind me, just the illegitimate offspring of Fereldan royalty, over here._

Shaking his head as if to deny the obvious, Greagoir paled in the dim light of the many candles the Sisters had lit throughout the chamber. "I'd never have believed the King unfaithful to Queen Rowan until the evidence stared me in the face… And so it is. No wonder you deemed it necessary to travel in the dead of night… Who is your mother, boy?"

His heart ached further at the seemingly innocent question. "I was told," The Revered Mother answered for him, "that she was but a servant girl in Denerim Palace. She is of no consequence anymore; the poor woman died in childbirth."

 _Died bearing a son unwanted by his father, and everyone else that followed,_ he mourned to himself, surely the only one left behind to grieve her death. How he wished he still had his mother's necklace in times like this. Without someone to hold and protect him from the world, he was at least able to find solace in her most precious belonging, imagining her soothing voice and gentle hands drying his childish tears. But no, he'd shattered it in anger some years ago the night Uncle Eamon had arranged for him to go to the Chantry. It was gone, just as assuredly as she was.

Sighing, the Knight-Commander pursed his lips and placed his armoured hands on his hips, nodding in pensive thought. "So this is why you brought him here, Mother. To hide him. How can you expect his identity to remain anonymous with a face that betrays everything? Even _I_ saw the resemblance instantly; you believe my men to be blind? I assure you, they will find out in short order just by looking at him for more than three seconds."

"Whether or not they do see him for what he is isn't relevant," she clarified. "All we need do in this case is limit his access to the outside world. A few years of training within the Tower will buy some time until we can find a more permanent solution to the problem. Perhaps the boy will indeed prove himself among your ranks and earn a place, here. That is my hope, and my prayer."

"Hmm," Greagoir begrudgingly agreed, turning an accusatory glance in her direction. "So was everything you said about him upon your arrival a lie?"

Letting out a controlled breath, the Revered Mother appeared contrite. "Maker forgive my sins, yes, most of it was untruth, but I deemed it necessary in front of your men. He does not yet have proper training in swordplay, but he knows the Holy Chant better than most boys his age. He was only in Lothering for a short time, moved from Redcliffe for reasons that are… obvious for those with eyes… However, he is rather boisterous and difficult to control. Andraste as my witness, I did not lie about that, though I wish indeed it _was_ untrue."

"Not unheard of for a young man of his years, and easily dealt with," the Knight-Commander thankfully dismissed this. _Oh, he has_ no _idea what a handful I can be,_ he smirked to himself.

Seeing the wry smile, Greagoir paused in his assessment, his eyes hardening in that distinctly militaristic manner. "All right, then, recruit. I am Knight-Commander Greagoir, your commanding officer now. You will answer to me."

"I'd gathered that," he replied sarcastically, earning him a look of barely suppressed wrath. "I mean, er… Hello," he tried to recover rather absurdly.

Taking a much-needed deep breath, the man spoke through clenched teeth, "You will address me as 'ser', recruit. Is that understood?"

His nerves getting the better of him, he nodded quickly. "Okay, then. Hello, ser. How's your day been?"

Greagoir stared at him so unabashedly, his eyes rounding in outrage before then spinning on his heel to face the Revered Mother. "Is he for _real_?" He asked breathlessly.

The Sisters giggled quietly next to the mute Brother until the Revered Mother quelled them with a daggered look. Closing her eyes to pray for patience for a moment, she reminded him, "I did mention he has a problem with authority, did I not?"

"So you did," he glowered, turning back to face his new charge. "What was the name that was given to you, recruit?"

 _An odd way to phrase it, but I can work with that…_ "I'm used to being called 'loud mouth' or 'smart ass' – ser – but the name's Alistair. You can call me Al for short, or maybe even _Istair_. I think that one makes me sound more exotic than I really am."

"Sweet _Maker_ , was he raised by dogs?!"

"Dogs are more _obedient_ , Greagoir."

Stepping away, the Knight-Commander walked back to his chair and plunked down, beside himself with thoughts of the work that would need to be done to correct Alistair. "Andraste lend me strength," he mumbled, his eyes glossing over at the prospect. Glancing back toward the young man, he covered his mouth with a hand and stifled a dismissive chuckle. "In spite of his glibness, I can't _help_ but see his father out of the corner of my eye…! Well, we'll have to do something about that, at least. I can't alter his face, of course, but he'll have a haircut first thing in the morning."

Alistair absently sent a hand flying for his ponytail. "Oh, come on, that's a bit rash –"

"Did I _give_ you _permission_ to _speak_ , recruit?!" Greagoir snapped, already thoroughly fed up with him.

An awkward silence ensued as the templar commander attempted to stare him into submission, demanding respect be rightly given. He wanted to argue that he not be clipped, to shout his disdain for his ordeal until his voice was raw for days on end. His lips tightening in one last bid of defiance during a long pause, Alistair eventually relented under their ashamed stares, giving up the fight as he stroked the lock of hair and lowered his empty hand. "No, ser…"

"Ah," Greagoir narrowed his eyes in contempt, "so you _can_ be taught… There's hope for you yet."

The Brother surprised all when he raised his eyes and stared at Alistair, quoting from the Chant of Light, as those were the only words he was allowed to speak. "With neither blade nor shield, Andraste gave herself up To her enemies..."

They all nodded in pious agreement to this, but it merely conjured the next verse in Alistair's mind: _And Maferath bound his wife's hands And delivered her to the Archon to be put to death._

Why did they conveniently forget that part of the story?

"I will take him and see to it that he sleeps where he can get a taste of his new lifestyle," the Knight-Commander informed them, rising from his chair as he excused himself. "Travel safely, your Reverence. May the Maker watch over you."

"May He watch over us all," she replied, rising herself and ironing out the wrinkles in her robes. _Bet she wishes she could do that to her stupid face_ , Alistair thought bitterly.

He hadn't actually meant that; he was simply overwhelmed at once again having no control over his own destiny. If they'd only let him go, they'd see he would never try to claim power, or lead armies, or be a hero. All he wanted was all _they_ wanted: for him to disappear into a throng of peasants, only taking up arms when called to fight for his sovereign.

Alistair straightened in surprise when the Revered Mother approached, standing before him with morose eyes. Her disappointment in him pressed against the hope in her heart that he would someday be at peace with the world around him, and in one last act of mercy, she raised her hand to his chest and closed her eyes. "In Andraste's Name, I call upon the Maker to watch over His child and creation. Watch over his path, O Maker. Give him light in darkness."

Stunned for a moment, he blinked a few times before asking, "Do I have to give you coin in payment for that?"

Seeing his confusion plainly, she threw him a sad smile, simply replying, "Pay me through acts of goodwill and a life spent in service to the Maker. That will be enough. I wish you luck, Alistair."

Frowning as Greagoir signalled for him to follow through the door, Alistair turned back in mid-departure, eyes darting about the chamber. "Uh… Thank you, Mother," he managed to be cordial at last. "Maybe I'll see you again, someday."

Nodding her goodbyes, the Revered Mother clasped her hands before her. "In happier times, I pray."

And with that, Alistair turned and followed his commanding officer out the door, his life in service to the Chantry continuing down an alternate path.


	3. Hazed and Confused

He'd slept in less comfortable places before, so his first night in the tower was nothing new. A mat on a chilly stone floor wasn't exactly welcoming, but it wasn't a kennel, either… But at least in the kennel there were plenty of warm bodies to keep him from freezing overnight.

Not too many hours had passed before he was nudged awake by a man named Owain, who solemnly introduced himself as the manager of the stockroom. Owain had received direct orders to find the hair-cutting utensils and assist the new recruit in making himself "presentable" before beginning his training. Rubbing his sleep-deprived face until he was somewhat alert, Alistair stood and sat on a chair facing the fire Owain had lit in the hearth as the quiet man draped a fine cloth over his shoulders, ready to begin.

"I have noticed that many templars for whom I perform this service often hold sentimental value for their hair, and express sadness upon having it taken away from them," Owain droned softly, scissors in hand. "I do not feel such attachments. Indeed, I feel nothing, and prefer it that way. But for you, I shall extend a small courtesy." He held Alistair's ponytail in his hand gently, and then the young man could feel as he used the scissors to snip the whole of it free. Owain then presented the recruit with a good eight inches of dark blond hair, held together by the simple leather thong that had tied it back.

Staring down at it, Alistair was consumed by a sudden emptiness of spirit. Another part of him had been taken from him by his reluctant consent. It laid limp in his hands as a symbol of what was now lost to him, yet at the same time spoke of new beginnings. Hopefully, they spoke highly of what would come.

He kept his head down as the odd mage worked, his curiosity piqued at the few words he'd shared. "Do all mages feel nothing like you, Owain?" He asked, unaware that those whom possessed magical abilities were devoid of feeling. If that was the case, no wonder they were so roundly feared, though he'd never heard of that before, not even as a rumour.

"Only those who have been made Tranquil," Owain replied. "Please do not flinch," he requested as he cut away at the hair around Alistair's right ear.

He shuddered involuntarily at both the scissors and the word. "What is that? 'Tranquil'? I think I've heard of it, but I don't really understand what you mean."

"Before I was made Tranquil, I was an apprentice mage. All I remember of that time is great fear and suffering. Fearful mages pose a danger, and can become host to demons, so the Rite of Tranquillity is performed to sever a mage's connection to the Fade. Since then, I feel only calming peace. I suffer no dreams, no fear, no hate or love."

Another cold chill washed over him. "You sound almost inhuman," Alistair observed, turning his head at Owain's directing hands.

"I am no more inhuman than you, young ser. Though my only desire is to serve, I am not made less human by it. I also feel no lingering loss for my old emotions. Indeed, I am content with this life."

For a moment, Alistair was jealous of his inability to feel pain and remorse, but it was short-lived. "Well, I don't think I would like it as much as you, but so long as you're happy – if you can even feel that, anyway. No offense."

"I cannot take offense, either," Owain replied levelly.

"Right. Of course not."

The remainder of the haircut was spent in awkward silence, but Alistair realized belatedly that the awkwardness would probably go unnoticed to someone like the Tranquil. Although Owain was slow in speech, he was swift and precise at this, and he wondered if he had performed this duty often. He did not wonder long before a soft brush wiped away at the small hairs on his neck and ears, and he ran a hesitant hand over his hair to feel the results for himself. It was gone, cut to a quarter of an inch at the back and sides, but slightly longer on top.

"I left a bit of length for you to decide how you wish to style the crown," Owain explained flatly, putting his tools away methodically before then sweeping around his feet to clean up the clippings. "Should you decide you are not satisfied, I shall even the length for you. I prefer to keep mine the same length, but others may prefer theirs differently."

His use of the word "crown" suddenly rubbed Alistair the wrong way. Looking to the small table, he ignored the odd feeling and grabbed up a hand mirror to inspected what he could in the firelight. Maker, he looked like an entirely different person now. The top, now free of weight, stuck up a bit, but he was sure he'd figure out a way to manage it. "No, this is fine, Owain. Thank you for giving me the choice… Not many people do."

"You are welcome," he replied, brushing the clippings into a bin and gathering his tools. "Thank you for conversing with me. Not many choose to do so."

Alistair felt sorry for the man then, but as he turned, Owain opened the door and spoke briefly to a templar guard standing on the other side, who then nodded and made his way into the room.

"Hello," Alistair greeted him, somewhat unsure of himself. "What's your name?"

The templar threw him a strange look and paused, as if waiting for something. Looking around as if his surroundings would provide some sort of clue, he drew no inspiration, and glanced back at the blond man. "I'm Alistair, in case you were wondering," he filled the silence, sensing suddenly that he was doing something wrong. "I am – was – a Brother at the Lothering –"

"Salute," the templar barked impatiently.

"Oh, um…" He'd never saluted before, but gave it an honest try, lifting his hand flat above his eyes and lowering it back to his side.

"You don't know how to salute?" He asked with rounded eyes, utterly flabbergasted. "That should have been the first thing you were taught!"

His lack of skill was quickly making itself known, and he did his best to fight a rising flush of embarrassment. "Sorry, I didn't... catch your name."

Pursing his lips in clear dissatisfaction, the templar crossed his heavy-plated arms over his chest. "I am Ser Willam, and I'll be seeing to your introduction and training today, recruit," he replied gruffly. "You will eat, sleep, sit, stand, march, salute, and piss when I say you will. Is that understood?"

His fair brows raising on his forehead, Alistair shrugged casually. "Sure, I guess so. Did you say eat? I'm starving for breakfast. What do they serve, here?"

Glowering, Ser Willam shook his head. "And you will answer only with 'Yes, ser' or "No, ser'."

"Right. Sorry about that." Noticing his expression beginning to harden, he hurriedly added, "I mean, yes, ser."

"Hmm. I can see you're in urgent need of correction," Ser Willam observed. Walking over to a nearby trunk, he bent over and lifted the creaking lid. "Take off your robes, 'Brother'. We'll get you outfitted first, and then we'll begin your training."

Afraid to hesitate for even a moment, Alistair sighed quietly and did as he was told, stripping down to his smallclothes as the grumpy templar walked back to his side, an old set of heavy armour waiting in his arms. "Seems like there should be some sort of big, meaningful ceremony for this," he mumbled, not knowing the first thing to do with the pieces he was being handed.

"For the love of the Maker, just get dressed, recruit," came his exasperated reply.

Nodding awkwardly, Alistair bit his lip and decided the tunic would be the most logical place to start. "Yes, ser," he muttered, pulling the rough cotton over his shortened hair.

O]=={XΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞ>

It had been another long day, and Cullen was eager for food as he opened the door to the dining hall, the smells of freshly-baked bread wafting pleasantly to his nose upon entry. The large chamber was already crowded with mages, sitting at their tables not necessarily by age or rank, but rather divided into groups of friends or political leanings. At another side of the room, much smaller than the space the mages occupied, were his fellows among the templars. Recognizing a few faces there, he strode over to their table and found a seat, the men rapt in conversation, practically buzzing over something or other, which hardly ever happened. There was apparently a juicy topic worthy of discussion, and he'd dropped himself right in the middle of it.

"I'm telling you, this new guy," Ser Willam was complaining as he stuck a fork in the middle of his meat pie, "he hasn't got the first clue on how anything works, here."

"He can't be _that_ bad, Willam," Horrocks laughed through a mouthful of peas. "He caught on to what you were telling him eventually, surely."

"How long do you think it took before I could get him to march in step? Take a guess."

"I don't know. An hour?"

"Try _three_!"

"That's not so bad," Ser Tomas dismissed this readily after downing the rest of his ale. "You expect too much of the lad, too soon."

Sighing, Ser Willam leaned his elbow on the table and scooped up his mug, shooting a devious smirk over the rim. "Well, I took my revenge, at least."

"Revenge?" Cullen perked up, curiosity and wariness taking hold of him. "What, you mean you drilled him into the ground?"

Willam grinned and took a few satisfying gulps, sighing as he set the mug back down on the table. A tranquil placed a dinner tray before Cullen, and he grabbed up his fork, grateful for the piping hot meal after his long day spent preparing a mage for his upcoming Harrowing tomorrow.

"I did, but that wasn't my revenge; that was just the training."

"So what did you do?" Horrocks asked mischievously.

At Ser Willam's low chuckle, Cullen could venture an educated guess. The recruit had likely gotten the standard tour for a newbie. The same one he'd been given three years ago.

The Brother would surely be lost within the tower in no time.

O]=={XΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞ>

After reporting to Knight-Commander Greagoir, Alistair wanted nothing more than a piping hot bath. He was sweaty beneath these cranberry-coloured templar skirts, and the smell that assaulted his nose when he stood still was overbearing. Covered in dirt from the journey and the stench of constant marching from dawn till dusk, he made his way through the halls, recalling the locations of every door as he passed by. It was a good thing he had a memory for such things, or Ser Willam might be even more furious with him at having to explain it all again.

 _Templar Barracks… Apprentice Quarters… Chapel… Stockroom… Dining Hall… Here,_ he nodded assuredly before the door Ser Willam had said was for bathing. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

A few mages dressed in their blue robes looked up and stared at him in bewilderment, and Alistair realised abruptly that he had been sorely mistaken. "Oh, sorry," he mumbled meekly, turning and closing the door firmly behind him.

How had he misremembered? _I suppose fourteen hours of marching from one side of a room to the other will do that,_ he thought grimly. Glancing at the doors, he counted them to be sure… No, this was definitely the door Ser Willam had said was the bathing room. Well, that couldn't be right, unless he was meant to bathe with the mages. In their rooms. _Not likely._

Coming to the obvious conclusion that he must have been too tired or inattentive that morning, he briefly considered asking a couple of passing templars for directions, but found his lips firmly pressed shut. The last thing he wanted was to appear simple in front of them, and he decided to randomly open doors until he found the right one.

As luck would have it, the very next door, the one he had assumed was the stockroom, was actually the bathing room. A steel tub sat in a far corner near a fire, a cauldron of water already on the boil. Gratefully, he walked in and locked himself inside, wasting no time in ridding himself of the ridiculously heavy armour. He'd watched carefully as Ser Willam had eventually insisted on showing him how to don it properly, and was confident in his ability to dress himself afterward. Alistair laid them by the door in a pile and loosened his shoulders, glad to be free of the weight.

Dressed only in his smallclothes, he carefully removed the heated water from the fire and set it in the tub, tipping it gently. He then refilled it with cold water from across the room and added it slowly until the temperature was just barely tolerable, unable to wait another moment. Tossing his smallclothes aside, he hopped in with abandon, sighing loudly as he closed his eyes in bliss. The aches in his muscles melted away in minutes, and he relaxed his back against the warm steel, grabbing up a small washcloth and scrubbing the dirt away in lieu of any soap.

He hadn't gotten far when he heard a key click the lock open, the door opening behind him. Stiffening in place, Alistair didn't turn around, instead eyeing the cauldron as thoughts raced through his mind. This bath had probably been prepared for someone else, for the person who had entered, but without saying a word, whoever it was closed the door and locked it again, and he listened as the steps hurried away.

 _Never mind, then,_ he shook his head with a sigh, continuing to scrub himself clean as the water progressively browned around him. He managed to calm himself again, closing his eyes as he dunked his head, running his fingers over his hair to wash away the bits Owain had missed.

He sat up straight again –

And that's when he laid eyes on it.

Startled, Alistair jumped up. He hurriedly brought his foot up to step out of the tub, but didn't quite clear it, and he instead fell full-force out of the tub and onto the stone floor. "Ow!" He cried out in surprise, slipping absurdly to his feet. Looking back at the water, he shuddered violently and threw on his smallclothes as fast as he could, his relaxing bath well and truly over.

Darting for the door, his mouth fell open at sight of the empty floor. "Oh, you've got to be joking," he moaned, realising that the unknown person who had come and gone had taken off with his armour in tow. "Very funny…"

He was going to have to find something else to wear in the Barracks. Wherever they were.

And he'd be lucky if he didn't run into anyone first.

O]=={XΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞ>

The templars laughed heartily around Cullen, their meals disappearing from their plates as the dinner neared its conclusion. Their discussion was almost totally drowned out by the rising volume of conversation in the hall, the mages enjoying themselves as much as the templars at this point. Fully stuffed, Cullen picked up his mug of water and suppressed his own laughter at the new recruit's plight.

"When do you think he'll realise you pulled a fast one?" Horrocks chuckled, running his bread through the leftover gravy on his plate.

Ser Willam wiped a tear of mirth from his eye. "Oh, I think he's far too stupid to catch on," he grinned, pleased with himself. "Ah. I'll give him another hour before I find him and reprimand him for 'forgetting' where all the rooms are."

Cullen shook his head, biting his lip to keep himself from grinning too widely. "Well, he can't be a templar in _this_ hold until he's properly inducted." Setting down his mug, Cullen leaned back and sighed. "Shall we make our way to the Chapel? I'm desperate for –"

A loud bang echoed through the dining hall as the door flew wide and slammed against the stone wall, and to everyone's complete shock, there stood a young man, his blue eyes as wide as saucers as he stared back at the crowd. It took a moment for everyone to realise what had happened, but the last echoes of idle chat at last died away as mages and templars alike stared openly at the frozen, nearly naked figure in the room, isolated from cover after stumbling several steps into the room before noticing exactly where he was.

Cullen's jaw hung open. That was none other than the new recruit, in naught but his knickers, standing in the middle of the dining hall. He'd clearly gotten lost in the worst way, and now didn't know what to do as a deep silence fell over everyone present.

Without waiting a moment longer, Ser Willam turned in his seat and stared at the boy, the movement catching the recruit's alarmed gaze. Then he raised his hands and, unexpectedly, began to clap slowly, mock pride in his green eyes.

Ser Tomas was next, then Horrocks, and then even the mages joined in. One mage rose from her chair as she applauded, followed by her whole table, and as one, the rest of the hall gleefully followed suit. No one was left seated, and even Cullen had to stand just to see what would happen next.

The recruit relaxed in puzzlement at the strange standing ovation he was receiving and, obviously having no other option, he lifted his head to attention, saluted firmly, turned fluidly on his heel, and marched right back out of the room like a proper soldier.

Upon his departure, the hall fell into laughter, cheering the recruit on for taking their fun at his expense so handily. In all his years, Cullen had never seen anything like it, and would never have thought to, either. There hadn't been this much merriment between mages and templars in centuries, he was sure of it.

"I see you've had your revenge," Cullen said over the raucous nature of the dining hall, his arms crossed over his chest plate.

Beaming, Ser Willam nodded with pure satisfaction. "Indeed I have," he replied. "And as you can see, the boy marches gloriously! Don't you think, Cullen?"


	4. Getting Off Easy

The excitement died down after a time in the dining hall, its occupants spilling out into the echoing halls as they made their way toward evening services. Cullen was among the last in the long procession, watching the apprentices and mages with unease, causing the hot meal in his belly to not sit well. It wasn't their conversations that had him on high alert, but rather their giddiness, their open and casual nature. Even their smiles and laughter. The environment around him had shifted dramatically, and though he felt somewhat guilty for being suspicious toward their charges, Cullen's gut overrode his heart on this matter. They should not be so relaxed around the templars, turning in their walk out the doors to grin and make light with his contemporaries.

The stark fact that the mages were beginning to fraternise with those who held their leashes was clear indication that the event that had taken place not ten minutes ago had changed the balance of power. That, he realised, was potentially dangerous, or at the very least cause for great concern…

"Did you see the look on his face?" One of the young apprentices, an elf named Surana, giggled through her words. "I'll never be able to stand near another templar without wondering whether it's actually _him_ under that helmet!"

"Truth be told: I didn't know they could be so human. It makes me feel better knowing they're just like us beneath all that cold steel."

"I didn't recognise him. Have you ever seen him before?" Cullen turned at the sound of that light voice, spotting the apprentice who had caught his eye some years ago. They'd never spoken before, but Solona never failed to make his nerves choke up on the spot whenever she was nearby. Those nervous feelings could never be explored though, and rightly so. Besides, he wouldn't trust her, anyway; for all he knew, the tightness in his chest at her proximity was a passive spell she was casting meant to weaken his defences.

"No, never. Have you?"

"No, but I wouldn't mind seeing him again…"

Flustered at her words, Cullen broke from the group and stood apart on his own, watching warily as they went on without him. He didn't intend to be late for the Sister's recitations, but there was something he had to do first. His steel boots clanked noisily down the hall as he hurriedly made his way in the opposite direction, heading straight for the barracks. Pushing the door wide open, he stepped inside and cast his gaze over the room, spotting the hapless recruit as he threw on what garments he could find in one of the many chests at the foot of the beds.

"You shouldn't be in here," he cautioned, stepping over to the boy. "And that's not your chest. Take them off now or you'll be written up for this."

Continuing to adjust the ill-fitting clothes, the recruit surprised Cullen by rolling his eyes. "Oh, no, please don't report me, ser knight. Have mercy on me. It will sully my _good name_. Will this go on my permanent record?"

Shocked at his tone, Cullen took a moment to process the sarcastic sentiments, feeling his blood grow hot in his veins. "Stealing is an offence unto the Maker, _Brother,_ " he glowered, his voice hardening to suggest that he should already be familiar with this. "'Those who steal from their brothers and sisters' – "

"'Do harm to their livelihood and their peace of mind', blah blah blah!" The boy slipped on a pair of iron boots in lieu of anything more appropriate, but by this point, Cullen was too flabbergasted that a Brother of the Chantry would be so dismissive of the words of the Prophet to protest. "'My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours. For all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one.'" The young man walked straight up to Cullen, his jaw set in defiance. "See? I can do it, too."

Just as he had opened his mouth to argue the point, both of them caught several heavy boot steps on the approach, growing louder and closer with each passing second. He turned on his heel just in time to see the door swing on its hinges, and two fully-armoured templars, those he recognised as Greagoir's personal guard, stepped toward them with purpose. Instantly, Cullen saluted with fist over heart, and the recruit at his side copied the militaristic gesture reluctantly.

"You there, recruit," Cullen heard the voice of Ser Royden through his helmet. "You are ordered to report immediately to Knight-Commander Greagoir. We will escort you to his offices without delay."

Cullen swallowed with difficulty. Word travelled fast within the hold's walls, and doubtless the Knight-Commander had been informed of what had taken place during dinner. Not wanting to involve himself further, he saluted once again. "Ser Royden, with all due respect, I request that I be dismissed for services," he asked, the tenor of his voice changing to suit the circumstances.

Ser Royden turned his helmet in his direction. "Did you bear witness to the events in the dining hall this evening, Rutherford?" He barked without hesitation.

"Ser, yes I did, ser."

"Good. The Knight-Commander requires a templar who was present at the incident. Rumour and conjecture simply will not do, and your presence will be helpful in our investigation."

" _Investigation?_ " The recruit's shoulders slumped in trepidation, and Cullen didn't envy his situation one bit. That didn't mean he held any sympathy beyond being the victim of a prank gone wrong.

Ser Royden gazed at the recruit behind the cold mask of steel. "We must report back. Our Knight-Commander will not tolerate further delay." Without any further explanation, the Knight walked back to the door and waited stoically for them to comply with their orders.

Cullen marched forward without hesitation, the recruit in his wake, and followed the guards down the empty halls, falling in step beside the young man. "First day in Kinloch Tower, and you're already in a heap of trouble, Brother," he muttered through clenched teeth, annoyed that he was surely going to miss the Sister's recitation now on account of this nonsense.

"Oh, find that surprising, do you?" The boy replied, running a hand through his damp hair. "Clearly you don't know me at all. This isn't even an all-time record for me."

O]=={XΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞ>

When they'd arrived and stepped into the large office chamber a few floors up, Knight-Commander Greagoir was pacing like an enraged lion behind his gleaming mahogany desk, and if steam had been shooting out of his ears as though his head were a kettle on the boil, Cullen wouldn't have been the least bit surprised. Glancing quickly about the room, he took note of the presence of First Enchanter Irving, standing near a bookshelf in the corner, his calm demeanour contrasting greatly against Greagoir's ire.

The recruit walked forward and stood in the middle of the room without having to be coaxed, surrendering himself to the inquiry quite admirably, if Cullen was honest with himself. It seemed as though the boy had faced similar situations regularly, conducting himself in such a manner that implied he would make no argument in his defence - or that he didn't take the matter as seriously as he should. Cullen stood off to the side, mindful to stand far apart from the rabble-rouser so as not to associate himself with his actions, and gave his best salute, standing at attention. It wasn't as if he was the subject of the small hearing, but the look on the Knight-Commander's face was enough to make him feel small. Fear and respect were fine qualities to have in the presence of his commanding officer, though.

Pressing his lips to a fine line, Greagoir rubbed roughly at the chin beneath his grey beard, contempt bleeding through every line of his careworn face. Walking around the desk hotly, he shot the First Enchanter a single look, communicating silently that he wished the elderly mage to join him in questioning the recruit.

"So this is the young Brother you were telling me about, Greagoir," Irving stated warmly, his old voice weathered and welcoming. "It is a pleasure to meet you, young man, and to have a new face within these old walls. I am First Enchanter Irving. How are you finding your stay so far in the tower?"

The recruit appeared hesitant, taken aback by Irving's hospitality, so unlike anything he had experienced thus far. He glanced between the two senior men, not sure whether he should respond given the circumstances, but unable to wholly resist friendly conversation. "The pleasure's all mine," he replied, mild surprise evident in his statement. "I'm not finding _much_ , if you haven't heard by now, but I'm sure I'll get used to it soon."

Irving smiled in good humour beneath his long grey beard at the recruit, turning to the Knight-Commander as he chuckled. "Ah, the boy possesses wit! I thought you said he was lacking in manners. Perhaps he is simply more amicable when shown an ounce of kindness."

"As always, you are far too excusing of unacceptable behaviour, Irving," the Knight-Commander bit curtly, his fists clenching at his sides. "I won't tolerate such casual disregard within my ranks."

"Hmm. I believe his presence here shows quite plainly that the Maker indeed has other plans," he nodded, looking to the young man once more pleasantly. "It might help you to have a sense of humour about the situation, Greagoir, unless the Maker did not grace you with one."

Glaring at this, he ignored the wizened mage's suggestion entirely, instead shifting his focus to Cullen, who stiffened anxiously at the attention he'd garnered. "Rutherford. I presume my men brought you here because you personally witnessed what happened downstairs. Am I correct?"

"Ser," Cullen nodded once with respect, careful to control his stammer, "I was present in the dining hall earlier."

"Then fill us in on the details."

Cullen stood at ease, recounting the events for them. "I sat with my fellows, eating dinner before we were to report to the chapel for our nightly prayers. That was when the recruit," he side-eyed the young man, who stood motionless, "stumbled in without warning, and the room fell silent."

"And," Greagoir pursed his lips, brows turning down in barely suppressed anger, "was he, in fact, dripping _wet_ and _naked_?"

His eyes rounded. "Naked?"

" _What_?" The recruit sighed breathlessly. "No, I was – "

"I am not speaking to you, recruit," he snapped suddenly. "I will hear what my templar has to say before I gather your side of the story."

Cullen shook his head as Greagoir continued to glare the Brother into submission. "Ser, he was not... He was wearing knickers."

"Oh, _knickers_!" The Knight-Commander threw his hands in the air and turned away, beginning to pace again. "Well, that's _perfectly_ reasonable! I'm sure the whole matter can be excused, then! Off you go, back to your bunks, then!"

"Calm yourself, Greagoir," Irving said slowly to negate his biting sarcasm, a small smile on his old lips. "Surely this was an unintentional consequence of something larger. After all, who in their right mind would elect to streak through our chilly halls? The thought of it alone makes my bones ache."

"You are _assuming_ , Irving," he glowered, "that this recruit even _has_ a right mind!"

Sighing out his slight exasperation with his old friend, Irving blinked slowly and opened his blue eyes to share his inviting smile with Cullen. "Would you mind telling us what the reaction was to this… unusual scene?"

He furrowed his brow in concern. "The… templars and the mages burst into applause. Not a soul was left sitting in their chair."

"A standing ovation?" Irving chuckled hoarsely at that. "Well, young man! You must be quite the sight to behold! I daresay I never would have received such a thing were I in your place, even at _your_ age."

"I fail to find this the least bit amusing, Irving," Greagoir countered, his outrage bubbling over. "This recruit _embarrassed_ the entire Order in front of the mages, whom they are duty-bound to keep _under control!_ This will undermine the templars and only make my job harder. It's not as if your mages are aware of the seriousness of their condition, and now to make matters worse, they see my men as a laughingstock!"

"And what 'condition' are you referring to?" The old man asked levelly, his tone suddenly serious.

Angered that he'd ignored everything in the tirade barring the one thing that pertained to his views on mages and their abilities, the Knight-Commander had to physically restrain himself from pacing further, crossing his arms over the steel on his chest and pressing his lips to a fine line. "Rutherford," he asked calmly, "what was the overall tone of the room when you left the dining hall?"

He hesitated a moment, shooting a look at the recruit, who just stood there morosely during the proceedings. "Ser, I believe the mages were… erm… relaxed. I'd even go so far as to say they were rather jovial, ser."

There seemed to be no end to the bad news he was delivering. If the mages didn't take them seriously, those who resented Circle life might be confident enough to try for an escape, or even an outright coup. Chances were that it wouldn't happen right away, but enough instances like that, and the templars would appear to lack authority and power over their subjects. He shuddered to think what disaster something like that could bring, and Cullen made a mental note to watch the Libertarians more closely in the coming weeks for any sign of conspiratorial behaviour.

Sighing, the Knight-Commander took the news exactly as Cullen had, turning a twitching eye on the young man before him. "Alright, as for you, recruit, I want a straight answer. What in Andraste's name happened?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, an embarrassed flush rushing to his cheeks. "Oh, uh… I was bathing, but I ran out and I… sort of got lost on my way back – ser. It's very funny, actually; I'm sure we'll all have a good laugh about it, later." Catching the reddening of his commanding officer's face, he quickly added, "Obviously not now, though, right. You're probably not in the mood for – "

" _What_ … possessed you to _bolt out_ of the bathing room without your bloody _clothes_ on?"

"Ah, that," the recruit nodded, finally understanding what information Greagoir was after. "Um, well…? I… saw a giant spider, ser."

The senior templar's eyes rounded with alarm, facing the First Enchanter almost instantly, who looked just as surprised by the revelation as Cullen. "Giant spiders! As if my night couldn't get any worse! I thought your mages sealed off the catacombs!" To his men by the door, he shouted, "Ser Hassocks, since the mages are _incapable_ of doing their jobs _properly_ , take a squadron and get down –"

He stopped short of giving the order as soon as the recruit shook his head and held up a hand. "Oh! Right, I see where you're – no, not a _giant_ spider! …It was more like, say, _this_ big," he indicated an inch or two with his thumb and forefinger. "Or maybe a bit bigger, I don't know. They always look smaller from far off, and believe me, I got as far away from –"

Now it was Greagoir's turn to hold up his hand, silencing the nervous young man. "Do you mean to tell me," he seethed with righteous fury, a vein standing out on his temple, "that you saw a _perfectly normal_ spider, recruit?!"

He didn't answer at first, clearly realising that it had been, in fact, quite foolish and cowardly of him to have caused such a commotion over something so trivial. Shrugging awkwardly, he at last replied, "…Define 'normal'… ser."

 _Oh, Maker, he's in for it,_ Cullen thought uncomfortably, inching slightly away from the Chantry Brother at his side as if to distance himself from the bolt of lightning that would surely strike him. He felt all the more on edge when the Knight-Commander turned and walked to his desk, lowering himself gingerly into the chair. Greagoir had heard enough, and mulled over the briefing pensively, hands clasped together upon his lap as he chewed at the inside of his lip.

Time was passing slowly, and unease started to crawl through his veins as they waited in silence. Even First Enchanter Irving didn't try to ask for leniency, which was his usual stance in these matters. Instead they all stood frozen, waiting for a pronouncement of some kind. Likely the punishment would be along the lines of hard labour, or a week standing guard with the night watch outside the tower, where the wind off Lake Calenhad was cold and bracing. Whatever he chose, Cullen felt it would do the smart-mouthed troublemaker a world of good.

Knight-Commander Greagoir at last leaned forward on his desk, rubbing his hands together in indication of his decisiveness. Cullen held his breath subconsciously, waiting in the stillness for him to proceed.

"Recruit, your actions tonight have jeopardised the confidence of the mages in our Order," he began, his voice grave and low. "If they begin to suspect that we are waning in our duties, things here will, with all certainty, spiral out of control. I will not bide with idle pranks and foolishness within my ranks."

He paused, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the bumbling youth, and his jaw set firmly as he quietly said, "I'm not convinced you simply forgot where the barracks were… The templar who gave you the grand tour this morning. Did he set you up? Was this all the result of some sort of joke that was played on you?"

Immediately, Cullen's thoughts jumped back to the memory of Ser Willam eating his dinner earlier, snickering over his plate as he told them about the purposefully-botched introduction. His heart raced at the thought, wondering now if they would all be on the receiving end of the Knight-Commander's wrath. If the new recruit was aware of it and confirmed his suspicions, they'd be emptying chamber pots and beating accumulated dust from the tapestries until the Maker Himself returned.

But the recruit stood silent, tight-lipped as he stared ahead, unwilling to utter a single word against the knight who had trained him all day and gotten one up on him. And Cullen was stunned by that.

Irving put in an encouraging word at this point as Greagoir continued to study him intently. "My lad, I know that it can be boring in this tower for a young man. It would not be unthinkable that an innocent joke or two is played to boost morale at times. If that is indeed what happened in your case, it would take a great deal of pressure off of you. All we need is a name…"

His mouth opened and closed with indecision for a moment in consideration of Irving's offer, but concern hardened on his face to determination. Before he had time to second-guess himself, he stood at attention, shaking his head, and affirmed to his commanding officer, "Ser, it was my fault. I will accept the consequences of my actions, ser."

That caused the Knight-Commander's face to go blank of all emotion in an instant. Lowering his eyes to the desk, he slowly brought his hands up to his temples and massaged them, trying to ease the onset of one of his many tension headaches. Glaring to himself, he leaned on one hand and let the other fall away with a dismissive wave. "I cannot allow for the mages to think us foolish and bumbling," he said dejectedly, running his hands over his face and reaching for a quill and book to draft something up as he spoke. "Perhaps, recruit, you will learn your place more quickly once I transfer you up to the junior quarters. There, you will see how a proper templar of your years conducts himself under my command… Rutherford, make it so. See to it that this man has a bunk and a blanket for the night."

The First Enchanter seemed to have no greater a reaction beyond that of a nod and a small smile of relief, but the same could not be said for both Cullen and the boy next to him. They were stunned, shocked and frozen in place by what they had heard. They _had_ heard that right, hadn't they? He wasn't going to be punished after all? He could barely believe the amount of leniency the Brother was receiving, and his shock was gradually giving way to a keen sense of unfairness. This pronouncement by the Knight-Commander was more of a reward, an honour the recruit hadn't yet earned. But why was he being handled with kid gloves when anyone else would have gotten the strap?

Greagoir tiredly cut through these frenzied thoughts, dipping his pen into the inkwell calmly. "On your way, you two. Dismissed."

Shifting uncomfortably, the recruit stiffened in place, his shoulders squaring defensively. "What about my punishment, ser?"

There was a moment of silence as the Knight-Commander scratched the quill along the parchment, not raising his eyes to the boy. "No further disciplinary action will be taken," he finally said, his voice bristling and husky.

"Ser," the recruit took a step toward him, surprising Cullen when he clenched his fists at his sides indignantly, "I respectfully request that my behaviour be corrected, like anyone else's would be if they were standing here."

Emboldened by this, Cullen stepped forward as well and gestured toward him flippantly. "Ser, I agree! A transfer at his rank is as good as a promotion! He deserves six lashes, at least!"

The recruit let out the ghost of a rueful laugh. "Thanks for sticking up for me, mate."

Cullen scoffed in annoyance, muttering back, "I'm not your _mate_."

Ignoring this, Knight-Commander Greagoir raised his hand to put a stop to their insistence. "I've made up my mind," he said, his words as hard as steel. "Rutherford, get him out of my sight."

Looking over the young man, he saw his jaw tighten and set, his face reddened, though whether it was out of either frustration or humiliation, Cullen didn't know. He clearly wanted to argue the point, ready to open his mouth and protest at any given moment, but all his furious fidgeting washed away as soon as Greagoir looked up from his book to stare into his new charge's blue eyes, full of something he'd never seen in his commanding officer before…

Sympathy.

"You've been given your orders, Alistair," he nodded slowly, ensuring he was understood by not breaking eye contact. "Follow them, lad... Dismissed."

And with that, the recruit at Cullen's side took a deep, soothing breath, closed his eyes, and swiftly made an about-face. Without making eye contact with the other curious templars, he left the Knight-Commander's office as quick as he could, and Cullen saluted quickly before racing after him.

O]=={XΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞ>

"It's special treatment. Favouritism. Something of the like!"

"There's nothing special about me…"

"There _must_ be, though!"

Cullen was pacing between the empty bunks, his fellow templars not back from services, which were nearing the end. He didn't want to interrupt the Sister by entering during prayers, and his arrival would also do nothing more than draw attention to the fact that he was severely late. Still, he couldn't think of anything else at the moment but what had transpired in Greagoir's offices, so perhaps it was for the best. "I've never seen the Knight-Commander shy away from delving out the harshest of punishments to anyone who deserved it. He's tough, but he's fair to all… So why didn't he _touch_ you?"

The recruit plunked down on the end of the lower bunk across from Cullen's own, his lips pursed in aggravation. "You saw what happened. I wanted a good thrashing just as much as you did."

He ceased his fervent pacing, sitting down in a rickety wooden chair, his hands shaking uncontrollably. "But that makes even _less_ sense!" Seeing the look on the boy's face, he clarified, "The highborn templars that serve in the Order have an arrogance about them. Their families are powerful, and they often come to us for one reason or another. They don't feel called to be here; it's just a way for them to pass the time, another box they can check on their résumé at parties to show off. They treat the Order like somewhere noble parents can simply drop off troubled or lazy sons to have them straightened out… And because it's all a farce to them, they try to get away with murder. But you didn't, and you still got away with it! Greigor was almost too… too _frightened_ to discipline you, but… _Why?_ "

He turned to face the recruit just then, who simply looked down at his feet, avoiding his accusatory gaze. It was then that Cullen heard his heart pounding in his ears, felt muscles tightening over his chest, and a telltale shortness of breath after a flood of pain through his limbs reminded him suddenly that he hadn't yet taken his dose of lyrium today. Immediately desperate for a draught, he leaned to his right and bent over the chest, digging through his few belongings for the little wooden box which contained his personal kit and supply. Finding it, he pulled it into his lap and opened the lid, the distinctive smell of lyrium calling to him like a soothing song, wrapping him in a reassuring embrace.

Cullen caught the recruit staring at him out of his peripheral vision, but he didn't care at this point, focused on the solitary task of carefully measuring out a dose that would calm his firing emotions and ease his growing dizziness.

"What've you got there, Rutherford?" He asked cautiously, watching as the templar measured the vial just right and replaced his syringe in the velvet-lined box.

He downed it in one gulp and felt the heat of the lyrium instantly take hold. "Oh, Maker, that's better," he whispered to himself, his body relaxing on the chair as he sunk down on his seat. Overwhelmed by warmth and comforted by the song, he rose automatically despite the rushing tide in his veins and sat down on his bunk, blinking slowly as all emotion washed clear from his mind.

Now exhausted, he looked up to find the Brother staring at him, his eyes wide with concern as he sat back. "That's what 'better' looks like, does it?" He muttered sarcastically, studying the effects the lyrium had taken on the man across from him. It was as if he was a different person, now… or hardly a person at all.

"Recruit," Cullen started slowly, his voice a deep, flat monotone, devoid of all feeling whatsoever, "what is your name…?"

He shuddered. He hadn't meant to, but the complete shift in Cullen had disturbed him so much that it couldn't be helped. "…Alistair," he eventually replied, lowering his head to the pillow and pulling a blanket up to his shoulder, staring up at the planks of wood on the bed above his own.

"No," Cullen said calmly, barely moving as he tried to shake his head. "I mean your family name."

Alistair swallowed hard, his brow furrowing before he turned on his side, facing away from Cullen's empty gaze. After a while, Cullen thought perhaps he'd pushed him too hard, or perhaps he had been right to assume the recruit and former Chantry Brother was indeed of noble blood. Either way, Alistair's quiet answer before they both fell asleep in the junior officer quarters was enough to send him wondering all over again, the mystery left open for another day.

"…I have no family…"


	5. The Royal Treatment

His eyes fluttered open slowly, the waking world taking a few good minutes to make anything resembling sense to him. For some reason the livestock were quieter than usual. He was accustomed to starting every morning to the sounds of their bleating and clucking long before anyone had a chance to wake him, but everything in the Chantry was strangely silent, today. Glancing toward the stained-glass windows to gauge the time, he noticed through his sleepy haze that no light shone through, as of yet. Wondering if it was still early hours, he blinked hard and strained to peer at the wall in front of him, where the Prophet Andraste should have been staring down at him. Instead, he found only stone and a large open fire.

Yawning, Alistair scratched at his hair to satisfy an itch, and found to his surprise that his long locks had been cut away. "What?" He managed to get one foot on the ground before leaning up on an elbow, wiping the crust from the corners of his eyes.

As he raised his head to the bunk in front of him, realisation at last dawned.

"Oh. Right. The tower," he remembered sleepily. He'd been dreaming so vividly of the Redcliffe Chantry that he must have momentarily forgotten where he was. Maker, what time was it now? The worst part about his new living situation that he'd discovered so far was the disheartening lack of windows to let precious daylight flood in. If this was an architectural precaution against escape, all it did was heighten his desire to flee all the more. How did the mages cope like this, let alone the templars?

That last thought made his eyes fly open again as his head shot up, effectively banging the top of his skull against the wooden frame of the bed above him. " _Ah! Bloody…!"_

Alistair stood up unsteadily, holding the bedpost for balance with one hand and his aching head with the other as he looked around. No templars were present whatsoever, to his complete lack of surprise. Not even that one with the stick up his backside from last night. No one had come for him; nobody had bothered to wake him. Either they'd all snuck out quietly in yet another stupid prank, or he was a heavier sleeper than Brother Marvin had let on. The latter was most likely, anyhow.

With a heavy sigh, he turned half his body languidly and spotted Cullen's pristine armour chest, deciding it was better to get dressed and go on with his day. He skulked to the end of the bed and lazily lifted the lid with a finger, rummaging through his friend's things for a spare set, and found one, as luck would have it. Determined to find something to eat first, he started by pulling the chainmail greaves over the cloth trousers he'd "borrowed" as well.

"Okay, so… That's done." Alistair nodded in satisfaction after securing them in place with a belt. "Now… which bit goes on next?"

O]=={XΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞΞ>

"Er… Sorry to bother you, Ser Knight, but I…"

Cullen turned from his post at the archway in the library, where renovations were still underway, to find a mage named Niall standing meekly off to the side, a book opened in his hands. "Yes?" He asked the timid man as flatly as he could, not wanting to sound too helpful. In truth, he was rather fond of Niall and his mild temperament. They shared a common aversion and uncertainty when speaking to others, but it was frowned upon and even punishable at times to identify too readily with the mages.

"Oh. Uhm," Niall stammered, "I was just… curious if the Spiritorum Etherialis was spared in the fire, or if it was moved to a safer area. I… couldn't find it on the shelf…"

Frowning, Cullen crossed his gauntlets over his steel armour. "Are you trying to summon something?"

Niall shook his head fretfully, his dark hair waving as he did so. "No! I mean, that is… no," he sighed, closing his eyes to gather his composure. The mage was a bundle of nerves around templars, but Cullen knew it wasn't due to being a secret maleficar. On the contrary, really. From what he had observed of his training in magical arts, Niall seemed genuinely frightened of his own abilities, and clearly worried they would do him real harm someday. More than likely, he'd end up joining the Isolationist Fraternity, preferring to hide away from the world rather than force it to bow to him, as some mages held delusions of Tevinter grandeur. "I only wanted to study for my upcoming trials. I don't intend to cause more destruction to the library with experimentation…"

"Doesn't make much of a difference whether or not you mages _intend_ to destroy anything," Cullen muttered disdainfully. "It only matters whether you actually do, in the end."

"Right. You're right," Niall submitted without a fight, hesitating before bowing his head awkwardly. "I'll just… leave you to your guarding, then. Thank you for not… Well, thank you, anyway."

Sighing, he watched as the mage began to walk away with a proverbial tail tucked between his legs. "Niall," he called quietly, careful not to garner the attention of the tranquil as they worked to put books and tomes back in order on the slightly scorched shelves. When the mage turned, glancing around nervously after realising Cullen knew him by name, he pointed behind him in indication. "Section three. Check the binding carefully. It might be harder to read the embossed gold title after… You know."

Niall actually smiled faintly at that, a weight visibly lifting from his shoulders as he walked to the appropriate section, and for once it made Cullen feel good to have helped.

This is why it was unwise to be friendly with the mages. It would be harder to kill them, if need be. But Cullen didn't let that bother him for now. He'd been kind, and the Maker bestowed blessings to those whom showed kindness to his children.

There was an annoying rapping like knuckles on hollow steel coming from the far end of the library now. "Hello? You in there?" a voice asked the empty armour on display obnoxiously.

"Oh, Maker's Breath, it's _him_ ," Cullen mumbled after sparing a disbelieving glance in that direction, shrinking into himself as he inched through the doorway and out of the Brother's immediate line of sight. Closing his eyes, he fought the flush of humiliation crawling over his face, cheeks glowing red-hot.

"Guess not," his voice carried in an absurd echo. "Anybody seen that Cullen fellow? Oh, hello, Owain! Owain, you know who I'm looking for? Templar brother, about my age or a bit older, chin scruff, surly bugger with a massive chip on his shoulder?"

 _He knows the bloody_ tranquil _? Andraste preserve me!_

"That description fits a fair number of templars residing in the tower, young ser," he heard Owain reply stoically. "Can you be more specific?"

"Ha! And you say you haven't got a sense of humour!"

"Indeed, I do not."

"I beg to differ, my friend. So, have you seen Cullen around? Is he hiding somewhere?"

 _Maker, please say no,_ please _say no,_ he prayed earnestly, not wanting to be seen anywhere near the boy after the gossip he'd heard over breakfast.

"He is on guard duty at the other end of the library, in the side room just before the stairs to the next level."

"Cheers, buddy!"

Cullen heard his own voice cry out in dismay and covered his mouth just as Niall turned in his studies to eye him curiously. This was the last thing he needed today, especially after the ribbing he'd received from other templars that morning during warm-ups. Sure enough, it wasn't more than a handful of seconds later when Alistair appeared in the archway, the smile somewhat broadening on his face at sight of him.

Eyeing the boy with a critical eye, Cullen sneered accusingly, "Is that… _my_ armour you've got on?"

Alistair laid a hand on the pommel of his stolen longsword and looked down as he moved to stand next to the templar. "Probably," he shrugged dismissively. "It was in your chest, so chances are high."

"You went through my things?!"

" _You_ left me on my cot and I didn't get any breakfast," Alistair countered, one brow lifted sardonically, unamused. "I don't like missing breakfast. It's the most important meal of the day, after all."

He had Cullen there. He'd all but ignored the new recruit, trying to distance himself from claiming any responsibility for him, and had left without so much as barking his name to wake him. Not that he would have heard him through all that talking in his sleep, anyway. "Fine. We're even, then," Cullen nodded once, refusing to look at him. "By the way, you should have borrowed my comb, while you were at it…"

Silence fell over the two as they listened to the quiet organising in the other room, and he sighed as he moved to flank the archway again in order to observe the mages, watching as Niall raised his hand and mouthed the words on the page, not daring to speak them aloud lest he cast a dangerous spell.

Looking over to the right side of the room, where most of the activity was taking place, Cullen was shocked to see Alistair in his peripheral vision, standing in exactly the same position as he was at the other side of the arch. "What in Andraste's name are you doing?" He bit out of the corner of his mouth curtly.

"Guarding," Alistair whispered back, raising a hand to his lips to shush him. "What's it look like I'm doing?"

Rolling his eyes, Cullen locked his gaze on the bookshelves ahead, aggravated that he'd dared tell _him_ to keep quiet. "Oh, _that's_ rich… Why don't you go ask the Knight-Commander if he has something better for –"

The large double doors behind them opened with a loud creak, the clanking of steel boots making their way down the stairs before it again shut securely behind them. Steps marched out of sync in his direction, and Cullen turned his head just in time to see a number of his fellows and friends making their way through the side room, effecting small nods of greeting upon passing through the door.

It wasn't until they spotted the boy next to him that their blank faces transformed into mischievous grins.

" _Well_ ," Ser Geoffrey stopped before Alistair, placing his steel gloves on his hips as he bowed low, "if it isn't His _Royal Majesty_ come to grace us _mere commoners_ with his illustrious presence!"

Cullen winced and turned away, but not before he saw the former Chantry Brother stiffen in place, his eyes widening with alarm.

"We're not worthy," another templar Cullen didn't recognise chimed in with his own mock-curtsy.

Ser Horrocks laughed with the other four in his detachment, adding his own sarcasm to the fold. "I am your _humble servant,_ milord!"

" _Milord!_ That's perfect; it suits him!" Geoffrey howled with delight. "Let's go tell the mess hall! That one _has_ to stick!" And they all moved like a wild pack on the prowl once more, waving their goodbyes to Cullen in their wake.

He watched them go regretfully, disheartened when he saw them trip a young tranquil girl as they passed through for no apparent reason other than to be unnecessarily cruel. Turning to face the front, Cullen noticed Niall staring in confusion, only to look away sharply and again bury his face in the Spiritorum Etherialis, pretending to mind his own business.

Alistair, on the other hand, was practically frozen solid, and Cullen had to glance over just to check that Niall had not been looking this way due to a Spell of Winter gone awry. Instead, Alistair eventually turned to meet Cullen's amber eyes.

"I should have been punished," he surmised, though his voice seemed to have a thread of hope for this theory that Cullen didn't quite understand. "I should have been scrubbing floors, and they know it."

Cullen shifted his weight from one foot to the other, squaring his broad shoulders. "It's true. You should have."

The boy snorted derisively. "Well, at least we agree on something. We'll be the best of friends in no time."

He ignored him, sparing only an eye roll at the very idea that he would ever befriend someone as flippant about the Order as this disrespectful recruit. They were nothing alike, Cullen told himself quietly, returning to supervising the tranquil. An older, high-ranking female mage arrived through the door far to his right, three young apprentices all no more than ten years of age in tow for their midday lessons. This was when his duties were most paramount. These children were impressionable, inexperienced, and newly brought to the Circle for training in the magic they'd only just discovered they could wield. He needed to reflect the highest authority possible to imprint their young minds with his projected image of watcher, protector, and guardian against the evils of magic.

"Ah, Niall! It's good to see you! Would you care to help us with our introductions today?"

"Of course, Wynne. Whatever I can offer in way of assistance, you have an extra set of hands. Hello, children," he smiled, messing the hair of the nearest boy, whom giggled along with his peers. Niall might be awkward and wary of templars, but he was quite friendly toward his fellow mages, especially the small ones.

"Listen, I need to ask you a favour," Alistair whispered to drag Cullen's attention away from the elementary lesson. "Do we get any free time in here? Days off, or leisure hours, that kind of thing?"

He clenched his jaw tightly, gritting his teeth as he blinked slowly, fighting his annoyance. "To eat and sleep," he replied, his tone dripping with impatience.

"Is that all?" Alistair huffed out a sardonic laugh. "No wonder you're such a cheery bunch."

Cullen let out a great, weary sigh. "There's a rotation," he reluctantly clarified. "We all have one day a week to ourselves, which is usually spent in prayer or quiet contemplation. Emphasis on _quiet._ "

"…All right, little mages. Welcome to the Circle of Magi. This is Kinloch Tower, your new home, and I hope you come to think of it as such, like I did at your age… Yes, Maggie? What's your question?"

"When can I see mummy and daddy? Are they coming to live with me, too?"

"So…" Alistair once again cut into Cullen's silent eavesdropping, "Do our days fall on the same day? Yours and mine?"

That brought his attention back around, causing him to turn his head and stare at Alistair frankly. "…What are you getting at? Spit it out," he nearly demanded, thoroughly confused.

The recruit shifted in his armour like it was the most uncomfortable thing in the world, and he didn't doubt it was. For one, that armour was specifically fitted for Cullen's physique, and two, he'd put it on wrong. "I was thinking – hoping, really – that you could give me a little extra training on the side."

"What!" Cullen had to forcefully lower his voice when one of the boys spun in his direction, Niall calling the boy's attention back to Wynne and the introductions. Glaring, Cullen was harsh toward the young man at his side, hoping to throw him off. "Why would I give up my free time for _you_?"

"…I'm sure your parents love you so very much, boys and girls. This is as hard for them as it is for you, I assure…"

"Because if you don't, I'll follow you around like a lost pup and go out of my way to annoy you until you agree," Alistair at last stated matter-of-factly.

Cullen faced the front again, not willing to budge an inch on the issue, much less be threatened with acts of mortification… Although he didn't doubt the troublemaker could fulfil that promise of mutually assured destruction. " _No_."

"…Let's start with the basics. Revas, would you like to…"

"No what, Rutherford?" He continued to pester him, undaunted by his firm refusal. "'No, please don't annoy me to death', or 'no, I won't help you better yourself'?"

" _Both_ , you halfwit!" Cullen practically snapped, his nerves frazzled to the breaking point. "Now stop bothering me. I'm on duty, if you haven't noticed." He turned in time to watch Niall cast a small frost spell, the glowing flakes of snow floating in the iridescent blue orb over his palm, displaying a harmless destruction class spell for the pupils' education to showcase what they would be capable of with a bit of practice and study. The children marvelled, awe visible on their innocent faces.

"… Right, then…"

Massively relieved that Alistair had at last given up, Cullen relaxed slightly, clasping his hands behind his back as Niall reached the last of the children, the little boy placing his hand through the ball and exclaiming how cold it was –

And then an extremely loud and drawn out scream tore through the library, causing the children to run into Wynne's arms in total fright.

Cullen jumped with alarm and drew his sword in one fell swoop before realising with utter shock and horror that the uproar came from none other than the new recruit at his side, still shouting at the top of his lungs for no apparent reason. Alistair's head was tilted back for the best effect off the high stone ceilings, and as he continued on undaunted, Cullen's face paled to a ghostlike pallor, his jaw going slack as his eyes flew wide.

" _Stop it_ ," he practically pleaded with him, sheathing his sword and quickly stepping to his right to clamp a hand over the idiot's mouth. With the other, he tapped into the lyrium in his blood to smite Niall's spell before it went haywire in the confusion, the snowball evaporating before their eyes.

It was too late, though. The tranquil were staring, trying to locate the source of this apparent distress, and before long a slew of fully-armed and armoured templars poured into the library, their swords drawn as though preparing to slay a horde of demons.

Cullen released Alistair as suddenly as he'd leapt on him, worried that his templar brothers might assume he was attacking the shouting fool, and the recruit grinned broadly, letting out a laugh as he waved at the alarmed men.

"Just checking!" he exclaimed, putting on his friendliest face.

The templars glared angrily, uttering growls as they stormed back down the hall they'd emerged from. To his left, Cullen heard the nervous laughter of the students blossom into hilarity, which was the last thing they needed right now; their first impression of templars was now one of slapstick and goofy hijinks.

"He's _funny_ ," Cullen heard the girl named Maggie giggle.

"His _hair_ is funny," Revas, the little city elf boy, laughed as he pointed at Alistair.

His face was as red as a royal silk handkerchief and, frustrated beyond comprehension, Cullen moved to stand practically nose-to-nose with the recruit. "Maker's Breath! Were you raised in a _barn_?!"

Alistair shook his head, still smiling victoriously with a shrug. "Stables, actually. And a few kennels, too."

His face fell blank of all expression, completely taken aback. "What?"

The imbecilic recruit threw his hands away from his sides in mock-exasperation. "Oh, _what_ , we're not allowed to do that, either? But the acoustics are _phenomenal!_ "

Cullen watched out of the corner of his vision as Wynne left Niall to his studies and ushered the children back out of the library as quickly as possible in search of quieter areas to hold her lessons for the day. Fuming, he seethed through clenched teeth, "If I decide to help you – and you _clearly_ need help – will you _swear –_ "

The recruit raised his hand in the air as if giving an oath. "I swear, on my honour, that I will be a good boy and do as you tell me, _ser!_ "

"Fine, _fine_ , _just_ – don't do that _ever again_ ," Cullen ordered, agreeing to this arrangement with all reluctance, only the deepest shades of red finally returning to his pale face.

"Deal," Alistair nodded, beaming as he returned to position and smiled cordially at Niall. "This is fantastic!"

Cullen took a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching the tranquil return to their task as though nothing whatsoever had transpired. A pit slowly formed in his stomach at the overwhelming thought of spending the rest of his days trying to turn this insane boy into something resembling a respectable man.

"This," he complained, crossing his arms in sheer defiance, "is ridiculous."


End file.
